


The Gift

by LoveHonorCookie



Category: Polar (2019)
Genre: Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:02:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveHonorCookie/pseuds/LoveHonorCookie
Summary: Just a short drabble of Duncan's thoughts as he's thinking about what to get Camille- I love their friendship story, and love their dynamic, so it was just a little something I had to get out!





	The Gift

He had liked Camille instantaneously.

 

Duncan Vizla was not a man accustomed to liking anything, and when he did, he often didn’t examine why. It seemed unlikely he would be lucky enough to keep anything he liked, anyway, so why bother trying to understand what you could not have?

 

But he liked the girl, Camille, very much, and in a new way. He liked her plain but pretty face, the odd jumpy way she moved, the way she seemed soft and strong and serious all at the same time.

 

It was different than the way he had liked Vivian, a like that was more appreciation than genuine fondness. He respected the cool, collected way she operated, admired her sense of humor, and he would be unhappy if he ever had to harm her, but there was little warmth to his feelings for Vivian.

 

Camille made him feel very warm, although not in a way that was heated. When he looked at her, he felt like he was indoors on a cold day and he was safe and he felt that he could keep her safe, too. He felt like maybe, just maybe, she was something he could take care of and not hurt.

 

It was a heady feeling. He felt… good. He felt good. He felt like he WAS good.

 

And to keep that feeling, he would do anything. He would GIVE anything.

 

He wondered if she needed money. But he thought he shouldn’t ask. Not right away. He remembered being poor, remembered how much it had stung when people had pitied him. No, he would not ask. It might be… rude. And he didn’t want to be rude.

 

She didn’t seem like the young women he had known before, didn’t seem like she would like clothing, or jewelry, and even if she did he couldn’t imagine getting her any of the shiny, obvious things he had gotten for women before. And he thought she looked perfect just as she was- simple and neat, plain but pretty. He didn’t want to dress her up like a doll. He just wanted to keep her safe.

 

He thought about the things she had shown him, the things he had noticed- her photos, and her coffee and her whiskey, the way her eyes had widened when she’d seen the knives he showed the children. 

 

He might get her a camera- but he didn’t know anything about cameras. He would have to look into that. He bookmarked several sites that he hoped would tell him more.

 

He might get her a bottle of whiskey- that would be easy. Yes, he could probably do that. She would enjoy it, he thought. But it wouldn’t keep her safe.

 

And then he thought of the knives. Thought of her dark eyes as they moved over them. Thought of her reaching out hesitantly to grip a handle with her small, neat hands. A knife would be good. She went out into the woods on her own, he knew, and he worried. A knife would be good. It could keep her safe.

 

But… she was so slight. She was so slight, and she wasn’t trained, and she shook when there were loud noises, jumped when the light startled her. A knife would not help her if she was surprised.

 

But a gun… a gun didn’t require you to get close. It gave you distance. You had to be somewhat accurate, of course, but there were ways to wound that would allow her to run, if she needed. She didn’t have to be perfect, she just had to be quick, and in the general range of her target.

 

And Duncan knew guns. He knew what size and shape would be good for her hands, knew what weight would be best. He could teach her how to aim, how to shift her weight, how to make allowances for light and shadow. He could help keep her safe.

 

Yes, a gun might be just the thing.

 

He put his sweater on, not removing the name tag that they’d made him wear at the school, running his fingers over it and smiling. He was a teacher now. On went his jacket and heavy boots, because he was going into town. He knew just the thing to get. He would have her present wrapped, too, with a bow, the way he’d seen in movies, the way he’d wanted when he was a child and there were no presents waiting for him, wrapped or otherwise. He would hand her the gift, and she would run her serious, dark gaze over him, and maybe she would smile and he would feel good. He would BE good. 


End file.
